


Expressions of Interest

by punchdrunkard (twopunch)



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Community: areyougame, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-17
Updated: 2012-07-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 20:12:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twopunch/pseuds/punchdrunkard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Curze and Dorn are bonding at a grade school level over insults and language learning.</p><p>Prompt: <i>Warhammer 40K, Rogal Dorn, Konrad Curze: Love/hate - Passing notes.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Expressions of Interest

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Definitions pulled from [merriam-webster.com](http://www.merriam-webster.com/) (with some edits), because that's how we roll in 12.M2 (and lacking an Imperial Gothic dictionary).
> 
> Written for the [areyougame community](http://areyougame.dreamwidth.org/) fic challenge 2012. Midnight beta by [prettymanly](http://archiveofourown.org/users/prettymanly/pseuds/prettymanly), but any data corruption is mine as is the formatting wonk.

\---

**yel·low** _adj_ \ˈye-(ˌ)lō, _dialect_ ˈye-lər or ˈya-\  
mean, cowardly  
 _Synonyms_ : chicken, chickenhearted, chicken-livered, craven, dastardly, gutless, lily-livered, milk-livered [archaic], poltroon, pusillanimous, recreant, spineless, unheroic, cowardly

\---

Dorn suppressed a twitch, keeping his face stony as he read the note Sheng had handed to him. Curze’s equerry waited for his reply with an affected bland look on his own face.

The note was archaic in many ways, from its contents to its packaging. It had been delivered on a silver dish by a courier bearing a herald’s flag. Both dish and flag were likely from Fulgrim’s collection, as Dorn doubted that the swooping phoenix motif was a Nostraman tradition. The envelope was made of a beautiful, smooth, cream-coloured vellum, no doubt also something borrowed -- or stolen -- from Fulgrim. Dorn’s full name with all formal titles and offices was written on the front in a soot-based ink that shone faintly from its shellac base. A blood-red wax seal held the flap on the back closed, and Dorn dutifully used the silver knife laid out on the tray to lift it off. The letter within was made of the same paper as the envelope and displayed the same hand at work as the envelope.

The handwriting was careful, neat and proper, the way a person just learning their letterforms would write. Dorn could see the deeper marks in the downstrokes of some letters made by a hand used to carving violently, the blots and splatters that were caused by hesitation and haste.

He ignored the actual contents of the note.

Sheng coughed politely, the tray still extended in front of him like an offering.

Dorn sighed. He’d been doing that a lot since the start of these joint operations.

“Lord Dorn,” Sheng said after another moment had passed.

“Yes?”

“Your reply, lord?”

Dorn thought about sending Sigismund over with a message later. No, that would be a bad idea. The last time he’d sent Sigismund over to the Night Lords’ ship... well. It was fortunate Sigismund was busy on the other side of the Phalanx at the moment, drilling the new recruits.

“Tell Curze I’m sure Fulgrim will be pleased that his studies are going well,” Dorn said and turned back to the various reports strewn across his desk. It was bad enough that the lack of fellowship between Dorn and Perturabo was common knowledge; Dorn was loathe to add another example of disunity amongst the Emperor’s sons.

\---

**ar·ro·gant** _adj_ \ˈer-ə-gənt, ˈa-rə-\  
1: exaggerating or disposed to exaggerate one's own worth or importance often by an overbearing manner  
2: showing an offensive attitude of superiority : proceeding from or characterized by arrogance  
 _Synonyms_ : assumptive, haughty, high-handed, huffy, imperious, overweening, pompous, presuming, presumptuous, pretentious, stiff-necked

\---

_What is the point in this? _, Dorn wondered, reading the new note. It had been delivered in the same manner as the first, using the same materials.__

“Very nice,” Dorn said, tucking the note back into its envelope. “Tell him he’s missing a few synonyms.”

\---

**un·grate·ful** _adj_ \ˌən-ˈgrāt-fəl\  
1: showing no gratitude : making a poor return  
2: disagreeable; _also_ : thankless

\---

“Do you not have more important duties to attend to?” Dorn asked Sheng as he approached Dorn for what was possibly the hundredth time. “Shuttling between ships must take up a vast amount of your time.”

Sheng shrugged. “Would you rather my lord send Sevatar? He’s quite free these days.”

“No,” answered Dorn immediately. The last time Sevatar had been on board... no. He was again grateful that Sigismund had not been around since these bizarre messages started arriving. “What does Curze want, Captain Sheng? If he wishes to speak with me, there are better ways to do so.”

Sheng shrugged again, chains rattling against his armour. “How could I know the minds of greater beings such as yourself, lord?” Sheng bowed low, keeping the tray level by lifting it above his head. “Though,” he continued as he straightened back up, his habitual smirk lifting the corner of his mouth, “perhaps he just wants you to write back.”

“Is this a common activity on Nostramo?” Dorn wasn’t sure he had any paper for letter writing. Perhaps he could borrow some from Fulgrim.

“In a way,” said Sheng. “My primarch did not participate per se, but he knows of the practise.” Sheng grimaced. Dorn raised an eyebrow. “He didn’t have ink and paper back then,” Sheng said, “so messages were sent using what was more readily available.”

Dorn knew some of Curze’s history before the Emperor found him. He sniffed in distaste and cast about his desk for something to write on. The parchment paper for oaths of moment? It didn’t feel right to use it for such childish games, but it would do.

\---

**soft** _adj_ \ˈsȯft\

\---

The battered and stained stack of papers was stab-bound, its cracked leather covers held shut by a faded cloth band. There was an incongruous cream-coloured note tucked into the band. Dorn pulled it out and puzzled over its brevity, then looked at the book again. Its dark blue cover was as worn looking as the pages. Its title was written in Nostraman, a language he did not read, though he recognised its form from the markings he’d seen on the armour of many Night Lords.

“And what does he expect me to do with this?” Dorn said, irritated now. They all had better things to do than waste time and resources on whatever Curze was playing at.

“I couldn’t guess,” Sheng said, with the blank look of one who, in fact, could. “Lord,” he added belatedly and likely deliberately so.

Dorn took a deep breath to calm himself and pulled out a scrap of parchment. He picked up a brush and dipped it into the inkpot that had migrated from the arming chamber to his desk. Then he wrote a scathing Inwit saying on the paper in the private script of his clan. Two could play at this game, he thought with tiny, triumphant smugness. Which he squashed ruthlessly. He was teaching his brother a lesson, not engaging in schoolyard taunts.

Mostly.

\---

**easy** _adj_ \ˈē-zē\  
1 _a_ : causing or involving little difficulty or discomfort _b_ : requiring or indicating little effort, thought, or reflection  
2 _a_ : not severe : lenient _b_ : not steep or abrupt _c_ : not difficult to endure or undergo _d_ : readily taken advantage of _e (1)_ : readily available _(2)_ : plentiful in supply at low or declining interest rates _(3)_ : less in demand and usually lower in price _f_ : pleasant _g_ : sexually promiscuous

\---

The note had been delivered while he was in the practise cages. Dorn thought it best not to ask why he could hear Sheng’s visor blink-clicking from where it was held casually under one arm. He had a sense that the situation was hurtling beyond his control as it was.

Only a week had passed since he’d received the book. There were more notes now, sometimes two or three a day, and all were written in Nostraman. Occasionally, Curze included a translation to point out a particularly descriptive word that Dorn would discover was used in the book. He found himself unexpectedly engaged in study of the language. In turn, he dug out old texts from all over the Inwit system and sent them back for Curze’s perusal with his own notes.

“My lord also wishes to know if you’re enjoying the book,” Sheng said. “He says, and I quote, as you must understand these aren’t my own words: ‘There were plenty of pictures.’”

Sigismund ran in brandishing his sword, bellowing something about protocol and respect. Sheng had time to sketch a quick bow before he ran out through the opposite door, saving Dorn the ignominy of blushing.

Dorn had looked at the book in private after its delivery. Its contents were... obscene. On each page was a stylised but explicit diagram and a two- to three-line poem in complex, flowing Nostraman script. He’d concentrated on translating the text, hoping to find meaning other than the obvious, but the Imperial rosetta and his rudimentary grasp of the language were lacking when it came to untangling the complicated forms. Fulgrim would be able to, he imagined. Dorn was not about to ask him for help. It was even possible Fulgrim was encouraging Curze in this matter, Dorn thought wryly.

If that were the case, he felt no guilt as he sat down to write his next note later that day. He was even beginning to enjoy this exchange with Curze. An unexpected outcome to their mutual provocations, but unlike with Perturabo, there was no jealousy, no real need for dominance to sour the experience. Dorn and Curze had little in common as brothers, but here was the start of a bridge across that distance.

And beyond that... Dorn leaned back in his chair and eyed the book where it sat innocently on top of a stack of dataslates, its cover closed and concealing what lay within.

He was not unaware of the possibility. The House of Dorn had already been a large tribe when his grandfather found him. With the addition of his strength, it had steadily increased in power and numbers. It was inevitable that overtures were made in his direction even before his ascension to emperor of the Inwit Cluster. Yet he had never felt that specific desire, had never really given it much thought when there were worlds to discover and fortresses to raise.

He consulted the rosetta now, studied the rune he wanted for a moment, and practised the motions of writing it before he applied his brush to a fresh piece of parchment.

 _An uncertainty of feeling poised between an extreme-positive and an extreme-negative emotion._ He considered adding the thin hooked stroke that would make explicit which emotions, but decided to leave it vague for Curze to interpret.

If he were being honest, he didn’t quite know himself.

\-------

Their fleets entered the Cheraut system and there was no more time for play. They were all of them now wholly devoted to war and fought, killed, and emerged triumphant in the name of their father’s great vision. But time and events moved faster. Brothers turned on brothers, and the galaxy would burn in their wake.

\-------

Dorn woke up from an uneasy sleep, the clammy tendrils of a dream still clinging to his skin. He ached all over, tender from Curze’s unexpected and brutal attack, but his body would recover in time.

He lay on his bed, grateful that someone -- likely Archamus -- had draped his grandfather’s cloak over him and stoked the fireplace in his room. He assessed the situation with the cold, logical analysis of a commander. Then he examined it with the weary, hurt heart of a human.

The games were at an end. He clenched his fists at the tightness in his chest. Something crinkled in his hands and he sat up suddenly, wincing as newly healed skin was pulled at too soon. He looked down and saw a crumpled, familiar piece of parchment paper covered in his own handwriting.

Taking a slow breath, he smoothed it out on his lap and reread the words he’d written so carefully, so long ago. The balance has been tipped, he thought. As he traced the rune with a finger, he noticed shadows beneath it. His heart beat steadily as he flipped the note over.

There was an Inwit word on the back, one that took him a moment to recognise. It was in a rare dialect from a small tribe that had died out long before the Emperor had appeared. The hand it was written in looked familiar from the hundreds of notes he’d read, but there was something different about it. The hard, slashing strokes were present again, and there was no attempt to control them. It was almost gleeful in its violence. Dorn instinctively bared his teeth at the menace it exuded.

 _Something longed for melted away by the relentless sun, never to take shape again._ He rose, pulling his cloak around him, and threw the note into the fire.


End file.
